


Where Sunflowers Grow

by lauraesque



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, Angst, BUCKLE UP ITS ANGSTY FLUFF GAY TIME, Eremin - Freeform, Florist AU, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reibert - Freeform, Romance, jeanmarco, slowburn, yumikuri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 10:36:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11530467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lauraesque/pseuds/lauraesque
Summary: This is not a significant story. It's just a story about the way two boys fell in love: one who always knew he would and the other who never believed it would happen. Mostly, it's a story about late nights drinking coffee on the rooftop. About forgotten kisses and forgotten dreams. About breaking into a zoo, passing out at a concert, having stupid fights at the beach and all the other dumb shit we do. It's a story about a place where sunflowers grow.





	Where Sunflowers Grow

**Where Sunflowers Grow.**

_Chapter 1_

It’s always sunny in Trost.  
It’s why sunflowers grow so gloriously here. They spindle up into the sunshine and sprout pretty yellow petals that my mom would caress and sing to as she sprinkled water over the soil with a toadstool-shaped pail. My mom and I were florists, and those were the good days.

“Jean, be careful with those!” Mom had scolded, frowning in concern as she watched me struggle with a bag of seeds double my size pressed to my chest. Sunflower seeds, of course. Trost’s speciality. Mom’s speciality. The flowers yielded greatly that year. The sunflower heads seemed heavy when I rustled their petals, and brought a harvest of more seeds that we could count. Somewhere, buried deep in one of Mom’s photo albums, there’s a photo of us standing next to a fourteen-foot American Giant, wearing blue ribbons and shit-eating grins.

I get up at 3.48 PM. Peeling myself from my bed and demanding my body to carry me to the shower seems to take about as much effort as pushing a fat Rhino up a steep hill. I turn the faucet on and let the icy water trickle over my bones. I smell, and I know I do. My clothes are glued to my skin, the back of my throat stings like 10 years’ worth of morning breath, and there’s enough grease in my hair to fry an egg. Wrapping a pink towel around my waist, I move to the mirror and run a wrinkled pink palm over my overgrown stubble. My hands are raw and soft from the shower.

I venture back into my bedroom. Though, now I live alone, this is the only part of the house that feels like it belongs to me. All the other rooms have my mom’s existence carved into them. Her footprints trodden into the soft carpet; her fingerprint stains on photo frames; everything in this house spells out my mom’s name. Not mine.

My stomach growls, and I am suddenly reminded: _humans need food to provide sustenance._ I sigh, almost exasperated by my body’s demand for food. Unwilling, I traipse down the stairs and into the kitchen, leaving a zig-zag of droplets across the linoleum. The floor is cold. Or maybe I’m the one who is cold; I am only wearing a (small) pink towel. I scavenge in the cupboards to conjure for myself an oh-so-nutritious meal of burnt toast and a yoghurt pot. The yoghurt is out of date, but only by one day.

After I have sated myself, I throw half the sour-tasting yoghurt and some singed bread crusts into the bin. That’s when the doorbell rings. I glance down at the skimpy pink towel wrapped carelessly around my waist. _Oh._

Once in a while, every normal human being will find themselves thinking ‘I must be the unluckiest person in the world’. Of course, it’s never true. There is always someone suffering more greatly; always someone in a more inconvenient situation, at a more inconvenient time, with completely the wrong person. Now, I do not know it - but when I open that door, thinking ‘It’s probably just a flower delivery Mom forgot to tell me about. They’ve seen worse’, all three of these factors will align like planets, in order to make me: _The World’s Unluckiest_ _Man_.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?”  
Before me stands a man of about my age. To his torso, he holds a round, reflective platter of the most perfect-looking lemon drizzle cake I have ever seen. His skin is speckled with golden freckles, dispersed as though the sun had – not just shone on him, but spat onto each of his slanted cheekbones fiercely. My eyes graze over each one, then flicker up to his hair which is silky brown and sticks up in mischievous cowlicks, down to his warm brown eyes, and then down again to the flimsy pink towel wrapped around my waist.

“Quite,” I mumble nervously, and my cheeks flush even pinker than said towel. He’s biting back a grin, not the least bit phased in comparison to me. He meets my eyes once more and allows himself to laugh; a sound that could be likened to both the tinkling of a bell and the roaring of a lion.

“Sorry,” says the stranger, still chewing on his plum lips. “I just moved in next-door, I wanted to introduce myself.” He holds out the platter. A peace offering. “I made cake. Thought we could have… afternoon tea.” He glances at the towel: a tell-tale sign that I have only just awoken. I feel a tugging at the corners of my mouth. Normally, I wouldn’t think to let strangers, particularly those who maintain concepts such as ‘afternoon tea’, into my home. But this is the first social interaction I’ve had in weeks, and that cake _does_ look very good.

“Alright,” I answer, and gesture for him to follow me through the hall. I wipe down the table hurriedly as he watches in mild amusement.

“You know, I can sort the tea,” he eyes up my kettle, discerning whether he’d be able to work it or not. It’s a simple button-operated one, covered in pink polka-dots and picked out by my mom. He should be fine. “You go get dressed.” I nod in response and turn to scramble awkwardly up the stairs.

_Clean clothes, clean clothes, clean clothes._ I have none. Only a hamper of stained skinny jeans and off-smelling shirts. I pray to any and every entity that I can find something in the depths of my wardrobe that I can wear. My search isn’t exactly _unsuccessful._ But it sure as hell isn’t successful either. All that I manage to find is a wrinkled MCR shirt from my emo phase and some dodgy khaki cargo shorts. Spare me ye pity.

My new neighbour has neatly arranged our plates and teacups, and is now slicing his cake with a knife that he somehow managed to locate in the array of kitchen drawers and cupboards. The perfect guest. Well, _almost_ perfect.

“2007 called, it wants its shirt back,” my guest remarks. I narrow my eyes at him. I don’t even know this little shit’s name, and he’s already throwing me sass. Wow.

“Shut up, this is all I could find,” I mutter, taking my seat at the table.

“What, do you not have clothes?” he retorts as he tends to the tea. He looks up at me and pours the boiling water into our cups, eyes wide, he gasps mockingly, “Wait, are you a _nudist_?”

“ _No_!” I scoff, near choking on my tea. “I just… haven’t bothered with laundry lately. And what gives you the right to make fun of me? I don’t even know your name.”

“Oh, right,” he laughs sunnily and extends me a hand. “I’m Marco Bodt.”

I peer over my cup at his outstretched hand. “You’ve practically seen me naked. I think we’re kind of past handshakes, dude.” I sigh and lean back in my chair. Marco just smiles into his cup and runs his thumb along the china handle. _Marco._ The name sticks in my mind like a sugary syrup. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Marco. My name’s Jean Kirschtein.”

 We sit and chat for a while. I shrug off any questions about me. I don’t feel like talking about myself, so I give vague answers and pester Marco about his past instead.  He tells me that he moved here from Jinae with his gardening company; there’s more work for gardeners around here. That doesn’t surprise me: Trost is known for its good weather. It’s always sunny in Trost. The sun shines even through rain. What does surprise me is that my new neighbour happens to be a _gardener_. A gardener and a florist living side-by-side? Sounds like something from some kind of third-rate chick-flick. I can see it now: a dainty-fingered florist who sings to her flowers and the hench gardener who putters around his garden without a shirt on, just visible through the low-cut hedge. Except I’m actually male, Marco isn’t hench (don’t quote me on that though, he’s the one who has seen _me_ near-naked, not the other way around), and this sure as hell isn’t a chick-flick. It’s probably more of a cross between slice-of-life and horror.

I’m very glad that Marco lets me keep the rest of the cake, because the next day I don’t even have to worry about food at all. Lemon drizzle cake for breakfast. Lemon drizzle cake for lunch. Lemon drizzle cake for dinner. Though, the refrigerator is growing sparse, and I’ll have to accept the fact that if I don’t go grocery shopping soon I will most likely starve. I also need to accept that I’ll soon have to return to working at Mom’s floristry. I technically don’t _have_ to, seeing as I own the place now, but if I don’t go back to work soon I will have nothing to pay for said groceries with. And I can’t just live off Marco’s (admittedly, delicious) lemon drizzle cake. Plus, poor Armin – the shop’s flower conditioner – probably has his work cut out for him; I haven’t been in to do any maintenance myself. Armin only works Saturdays and Tuesdays in the shop. Unlike me, Armin’s a hardworking student at Trost Uni studying Oceanology or some shit. Yeaaah, I could have gone to college. But, luckily for me my mom already had a business in the field I was interested in, and you don’t need qualifications to get employed by your mom.

I vow to return to the shop on Tuesday.

 

 

 

It is Tuesday afternoon, and I have failed. I’m just considering going to bed at 6pm when my doorbell rings. I glance down at the grubby sweatpants I wriggled into this morning, and hope it isn’t Marco. When I open the door and see my four best friends, their eyes swimming with very much _gratuitous_ pity, I immediately regret that wish.

“Fuck off,” I grumble and move to slam the door, but Connie slips his foot in the doorframe to stop me.

“Jean, you _know_ that we need to stage an intervention.” That tone of reason does not suit Connie’s voice at all. He wrenches open the door and wriggles inside, followed closely by Sasha, Reiner, and Bertholdt, who gives me a sympathetic smile as he slips past me, trying as hard as a person possibly could to not brush against either me or the lemon wallpaper of the thin corridor. Nice try, Bertl. No way am I falling for that. You and I both know you were in full support of your butch boyfriend when he suggested it was high time for me to come out of my room and face life again.   
They all worm their ways into the kitchen and I sigh resignedly, slamming the front door behind us. As I dash around the kitchen, like the fab host I am, I can feel every eye trailing after me, distracted only by the kettle making a curious ‘clanging’ sound as I set it to boil. Once everyone is settled, mugs clasped between their hands as they stare back at me soberly, Connie clears his throat in a purposeful manner.

“When was the last time you did laundry?”  
“Sunday,” I lie.  
“Answer truthfully.” _Dammit.  
_ “I can’t remember,” I say and shrug.

The group hum thoughtfully, and I feel not unlike a monkey being observed by a strange group of zoologists who happen to be wearing either flannels or chinos.

“Okay…” interviewer Reiner takes over, “How about dishes?”  
I shrug again. “Haven’t needed to for a while.”  
Reiner nods to Sasha and I am suddenly very afraid. My fear is warranted when Connie grabs hold of my arms, binding me to the chair.

“Hey, you don’t need to-” I gasp, but it’s too late. Sasha is already tutting at the meagre scraps of food in my fridge.

“Just as we thought,” she sighs “you haven’t left this house since then, have you?”  
I grimace and shake my head.

“Jean, it’s okay.” Bertholdt reaches out to give my hand a gentle pat. These four would make a great team of investigators. They have the perfect balance of ‘good cop’ and ‘bad cop’. “We’re going to help you.”

I grit my teeth, seething silently. Can’t they see I don’t want their facile condolences? Despite this, my stiff jaw visibly unclenches when Bertholdt smiles softly and says, “Isn’t that what friends are for?”  
I force myself to see it their way, and nod in defeat. I can grant that if they were where I am, I would want to do everything in my power to help them, too.

After the four pester me into allowing them to help me out, Mama Braun herds me upstairs and runs me a bath. Yes, you heard that correctly. He literally turns the tap on for me, adds bubble bath, checks the temperature, and fetches me a towel and a newspaper.

“You just relax for a couple hours or so, we’ll sort everything for you,” he promises and ruffles my hair affectionately. I feel my face get hot at my own neediness.

He’s about to shut the door when I mumble, “Hey, Reiner…” He looks back at me, thick eyebrows raised expectantly. I gulp, as if I could literally swallow my pride. That would be nice, actually.   
“I… really do appreciate everything you and the others are doing for me.”

He shoots me a wry smirk.  
“Oh, I know.”

As reluctant as I was to allow my four friends to weasel into my situation, I really _am_ glad I can count on them.  I suppose someone does have to give me a reality check, and there’s no use in me being a stubborn ass about it. Having caught up on world affairs, I set then newspaper aside and sink further into the bath. The water seeps soothingly over my shoulders. I feel as though it’s tending to bruises I can’t see. Bruises far deeper than the surface of my pale skin. I allow myself to be quietly submerged, sinking further and further until my head rests at the bottom of my tub. Slowly, I open my eyes and see the lights dance above me like fireflies. The deafening silence of water floods my ears, drowning out the noise of my friends on the floor below. Drowning out everything. I feel so peaceful, I almost forget to re-emerge. But not quite. I splutter as I do, water running from over my eyelids and my lips; my hair like a rain cloud hovering above me.

“Jean? Are you okay?” Bertholdt’s anxious voice comes from the other side of the door. I hastily recompose myself and tell him that everything is fine. Everything is. “Alright, well I left some pyjamas and a towel on your bed for you.”  
I mutter an awkward ‘thank you’ and scramble out of the tub, yanking at the drain plug and wrapping a fresh towel around myself. Bertholdt takes the noise of the water being drained as a signal to leave, so I cautiously creep out the door and scurry into my bedroom. I would hate for one of the others to see me – particularly Connie or Sasha. I’m not certain that they wouldn’t make fun of my pink towel. Why do I have so many pink ones? Someone hates me.

When I close the door behind me and breathe a sigh of relief, safe at last from being sighted in such a vulnerable state, I see that my room is entirely transformed. The refreshing smell of fresh sheets and febreeze fills my nostrils, a pleasant change from the grimy smell of sweat that had been lingering before. The floor too, no longer strewn with dirty laundry, is immaculate. When I notice the pyjamas, neatly folded and placed on my newly-made, are brand new, I am flooded with gratitude for my friends. I wiggle into the plaid bottoms, my cheeks still burning pleasantly at the thought of being so cared for, and shrug the shirt over my shoulders. The cotton feels soft against my raw skin, like I’ve been pulled into a gentle hug.

Once I’ve given my damp hair a quick brush, I head downstairs to the living room where I know my friends are waiting. I can hear them chatting amicably on the other side of the door. I first inhale, steeling myself, then fling the door wide open. The air is stiff with silence.

“Jean…” Sasha is the first to speak. Her brave face falters for a second, but then it’s there again. Warm and comforting with that wide toothy grin and eyes so shiny I feared a magpie might try to snatch them away. “We, uh, cleaned up a bit. You have to promise you’ll do your own laundry from now on though!”

“You guys…” I try to express my thanks, but I’m fumbling to find the right words. I honestly had no idea they cared so much. I stand there with my mouth agape, and Connie almost laughs. Almost.

“We love you too, Jean!” he chuckles, but the sincerity in his voice is unmistakable. Dear God, this is getting a bit fluffy.

“That’s not what I-” I don’t get to finish my sentence before I am enveloped in a tight hug. Soon, all four of my friends have their arms wrapped around me, and Reiner unwittingly threatens to squeeze the very life from me. Once I’ve relaxed into their embrace and given each of them an awkward, yet affectionate, pat – I am finally released. The peals of laughter fade into giggles and I receive several fond noogies before anyone settles down.

“Alright, Jean.” Reiner clears his throat, his tone serious all of a sudden. “Tomorrow, I’m going to drive you to work. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

“Butts,” Connie snickers. Reiner shoots him a warning glance.

“After you go finish work, and apologise to poor Armin who has been worried _sick_ about you these past few weeks,” I cower a little under Reiner’s scolding gaze. “Sasha and Connie are taking you grocery shopping. If you get any skinnier I am going to force-feed you protein bars – and I _know_ how much you hate protein bars!”

“But-”

“WHAT DID I JUST SAY ABOUT BUTS!?”

Connie is really restraining himself here.

“Fine, fine,” I huff. Reiner looks satisfied. He stretches his sculpted arms to give my shoulders a gentle squeeze.

“Get some rest. Tomorrow’s a big day for you.”

I mumble that I already know that and turn to hand him his rucksack, which had been discarded next to the couch.

Several hair ruffles, affectionate pats, and goodbyes later – and I’m curled up on the couch watching Game of Thrones. Sasha had the foresight to leave me a bag of Doritos which I munch, contented, as I let the mindless violence and other such profanities wash over me.

8.30 pm. The doorbell rings. I heave myself from the couch and, brushing the crumbs from my PJs, venture through the hallway to answer the door. My mouth falls into a surprised ‘O’ and closes again, and I can still taste the paprika on my tongue.

“Marco.” I blink.

“Jean,” he nods politely and continues, “I do believe you owe me a cake platter? I was waiting for you to come by my place and return it – but you never seem to leave your house, so…”

My mouth reverts to the small ‘O’ again; I had completely forgotten about the silver serving-plate Marco had brought that delicious lemon-drizzle cake upon.

“Right…” I say, quite unsure how to respond. An awkward silence befalls us, and Marco peers over my shoulder expectantly. _He wants you to invite him in. Invite him in, Jean!_ My brain is practically screaming at me, but my lips have trouble shaping the right words. “So, uh-” I sidestep to let him through the hall. He brushes past me and I catch the unmistakeable summer smell of pollen and honey. Maybe he’s a bee. He seems like the type of friendly person who could totally be a bee. _Ha_ , bee a bee. Just managing to stop myself from chuckling at my own lame pun, I gently shut the door behind us and shuffle after Marco into the kitchen. As soon as my feet are flat against linoleum, Marco gives me that expectant look again – like a puppy awaiting a treat. I start to rummage through drawer after drawer. They’re all stacked high with plates and bowls in order from when my friends had washed and sorted them, but no platter to be in sight. Crap, crap. Where had they put it? I can feel Marco’s anxious gaze as I desperately sort through plate after plate. Gulping nervously, I turn to him.

“Uh, my- my… my friends tidied up for me and – uh – seem to have… _misplaced_ your platter,” I mumble and run an awkward hand over the prickly base of my undercut.

“Oh…” Marco’s wrinkled forehead smoothens and he gives me a soft smile. I breathe a little sigh of relief. “I’m glad to hear that.”

I cock my head. “What, was that platter some present from your Grandma you didn’t like, and you’re happy you managed to pawn it off on me?”

Marco lets out a breathy chuckle. “No, no. That’s not it at all.”

“…Then?”

Marco’s face flushes a becoming pink that spreads beneath his freckles, making them look like ink splodges on a watercolour painting. “Well…” he stammers, “I was kind of worried.” He sees my unimpressed expression and immediately backtracks, palms upturned defensively “I mean, just that – Well, you never really go outside, and I was worried you – you might be a recluse, or something.”

_Tsk._ “Is that why you came to see me? Because you were worried?”  
Marco gives me an uncomfortable nod.   
“Well, you don’t need to worry about me. As you can see, I have _plenty_ of great friends. And I’m not a recluse. I’m just…” I chew my lip thoughtfully, “…Taking some time off work, is all. I’m going back tomorrow, anyway.”

Marco sighs, looking like Atlas when Hercules relieved him of the effin’ sky. I’m astonished that he cares so much. What kind of person worries like that over someone they just met? A voice in the back of my head whispers ‘Freckled Jesus’.   
“So, where do you work?”

I eye him suspiciously for a second, then give my hesitant reply: “Kirschtein Flowers.”  
Okay, I know the name _sounds_ lame – but you wouldn’t believe how awesome ‘Kirschtein’ looks in looping cursive. So.

Marco’s face lights up. “Really?! You-” he catches himself. Confused, I frown at the way he clasps a hand over his mouth as though he was about to let something important slip.

“Sorry,” Marco catches my confusion, “I was just going to start blabbering about flowers. That would be a very long conversation.” He laughs in an awkward, endearing manner; so genuine that I believe him.

We quickly settle into idle chatter; Marco does end up blabbering about flowers, despite his best efforts. His face lights up like a Christmas tree when I tell him that my favourite flower is a sunflower (which isn’t even that surprising, everyone in Trost loves sunflowers), and tells me his is too. He asks me a lot of random questions. _Have you had any pets?_ No, never. _Do you like to swim?_ On occasion. _What’s your favourite colour?_  Blue.   
It’s amazing how he breezes from one question to another. It comes to him so easily. Normally, people would feel as though they were being interrogated under that kind of questioning, but the way Marco slips in factoids about himself between questions make them easy to answer. It’s not until 10 that Marco finally considers retiring to his own house for the night.

“Right,” Marco sighs on the other side of my doorframe.

“Right,” I echo, unable to help the small smile that threatens to morph into a grin any time soon.

“I’ll see you soon, Jean,” Marco promises with all the sincerity of an oath.

“Okay.”

That seems to be enough for Marco. I watch as he slinks into the dark and fumbles with the door handle of his own house. He sees me watching and shoots me a small wave, almost secluded by the darkness. And then it’s over, and I pad up the stairs and into my bed. That night I sleep a lot better than I have done in a very long time.


End file.
